Scorch
by Gstroy
Summary: Who am I? Why am I here?


It was cold, dark, but for some reason it felt like home, well almost, all except for the chains. He didn't remember how he got there; in fact he didn't remember anything, except one word, Scorch. Was it hid name? No, nickname, maybe… but for all he knew it was a city, a country, a… well, it could be anything. He tested the chains, they held tight. Someone didn't want him to leave… but why? Was he a criminal? A rich man's son held for ransom? Unlikely. All he knew was scorch, and the basic premise of how the world ticks. He thought he remembered a… difference between him and others, back from even as long ago as his childhood… Long ago? Was it really long ago? Or was it recent? He had no way of telling, no mirror- actually, no anything. It hadn't occurred to him before, but there was nothing in his new home, only him, the bars, and the chains. He heard something, a clanging. Someone was coming. The shadow seemed to grow, to a frightening size, as if it were a black-hole ready to suck him in. Then he was at the bars, looking in. The mystery man only had to say two words to send shivers down his spine. "Hello, Scorch."

He didn't seem intimidating, but to Scorch, he seemed like Satan himself. He was about six foot even, and had a stocky build. His hair was pure white, slicked back… it resembled Dracula in a way. At his side was a long saber, roughly three feet long, but he didn't seem to have a gun. Scorch felt uneasy, but not as threatened as he had earlier. He started to speak again, this time softer. "We know you're a mutant, and judging by the note you were clutching when we found you, your name is Scorch. You had quite a bit of brain damage after that fall, you're lucky we could keep you alive." His voice was sickening. It fell somewhere between Southern Gentleman and redneck, with a hint of homicidal maniac… that's not a good thought. "Now you have two choices, one, you can help us get information from the rebels, or two, you can choose to… well lets just say you won't like option number two." Any feeling's he may have had before now faded into fear. Truthful, genuine fear. Like none he had ever felt… or at least remembered feeling. Then he had a strange feeling wash over him, his fear melted, turned to rage and… heat? Then there was a roar, he screamed the chains melted, burning his skin. The fire radiated from him body, as if he were the sun. Then all faded to black.

He was awake in seconds. His Captor lay on the ground, a few feet back from the bars... what was the bars. He heard gunfire, lots of it, and pounding. He looked at the door, just as it was kicked down. Six men walked in, in full body armor. They had various SMG's on them, most were held together with duct tape and rope. They didn't hesitate to fire. Then he ran, faster than he knew he could. There was a second door, and almost as if being controlled, he stuck out his hands and… shot flames? The door was gone in seconds, and he was outside. He stopped for a second, but the sound of gunshots snapped him back to reality. He started running again, towards the gunfire… then he saw the cause of all the commotion. Two factions, presumably his captors and the before mentioned rebels, were fighting. He just kept running, one of the Rebels waved him down, told him to get into the van. He was about one-hundred feet away when he collapsed, it felt as if something ripped through his right shoulder… he had been shot. Inexplicably he was back up in seconds, the pain fading. As he got closer to the van, the rebels started their retreat. The van doors closed, and they started off. He looked around

at the faces of his friends… friends? Then the faces faded, into a unconsciousness.

When he awoke again he was in some sort of lab. There were doctors around him, awaiting his return to reality. "Mr. Spires is awake!" a nurse yelled out the open door. The doctors left the room. A man in a grey suit walked in. He was a little tall, about six foot four, and was older, around sixty-five. He had deep set eyes and a perpetually sad look on his face. "I'm glad to see your still alive Mr. Spires. Our whole operation would have gone to shit without you." He genuinely seemed happy, but had the same depressed look." Wh-w-Where am I?" Scorch asked, not recognizing his own voice. "I was afraid of that…" the man said, seeming distant. "You had quite a nasty fall there; allow me to explain as much as I can." Scorch could only nod. "Your name is Scorch Spires, well not your real name of cour—" "Where'd I get the name Scorch?" he interrupted. "When you were young you were orphaned. You spent much of your childhood in an orphanage. You never liked to go by your real name, it brought back to many memories, so you always were looking for nic-names, and never telling us your actual name. One day you discovered your "gift," you could pull fire from thin air. The other children started calling you Scorch, and it stuck." He stopped, giving it time to sink in. "As you grew older you became more powerful, and learned the ways of the Conduits—" "Conduits?" "Those of us with powers." "Oh." "As I was saying, when the Militia took control of New Marais, you started the organization Scorch." Again a pause. "A little bit arrogant of me, don't you think?" Yes a little." he chuckled. "Secret Confederation of Conduits: Hunted." "What's the Hunted part mean?" "Exactly what it says, we're hunted." He pondered for a moment. "What's this fall everyone's talking about." Another pause. "Well… you were flying back from a recent Search, when your plan was shot down by the Militia. You fell from the plane an—" "I lived?" "Yes, you were in the process of landing, so it was only a couple thousand feet." Scorch sat there baffled. "We think that you lost your memory do to trauma, considering your parents died in a plane crash." Scorch was confused again, and his head still hurt. Once again he blacked out.

Operation: Scorch

Drop Zone: New Marais

Deployment: Insignia

Operative: Matthew MacGrath

The squad repelled out of the helicopter. "Majors, Jackson, you're with Tarmin, flank around east, and meet back at rendezvous Charlie. Rodriguez and Young, you flank left, and cut right, go to Alpha and await further instructions. Baker, you're with me. Philips, provide covering fire if necessary, we'll cover you over to Delta where you'll sit nice and cozy. Move out." MacGrath hadn't been at this long, he had just elected to lead a newly formed Special Operations squad, Insignia. He liked the hard work, it kept his thoughts off of his childhood friend and cousin Cole, he died in the explosion in Empire City. "No hostiles as of yet, over." "Roger that Tarmin, what about you Young?" "No dice, at least not yet, over." _Where are they…?_ "Where are these "Scorch" goons we're supposed to be meeting up with?" "I'm not sure Baker…" There's a sudden burst of gunfire, a small distance away. "New objective everyone! Meet at the Tango's last known location, over!" "Roger!" When they reached the group of militia members they saw three wounded, and one was running away from… a… Conduit, that's what their briefer called them. He seemed to have electrical powers. "Hello?" Matthew said. "Are you with Scorch?" The conduit turned around, and Matthew was dumbfounded. "Cole!" Cole looked at him intently for a second, then his expression changed, to recognition and happiness. "Hey Matt, how's it going?" "I thought you died… in the explosion! I hadn't heard from you, I assumed…" "Yeah, that's a bit of a long story… I'll tell you later. You said you were looking for Scorch?" "Y-ye-yeah, are you with them?" "No, not yet at least. I was trying to find them, when these guys jumped me." "I was kind of expecting more of these Rednecks, why else would they send Special Operations down here?" Matt said. "So you're Spec Ops now? Nice gig you got going for you, huh?" "It's not all fun and games Cole, then again, I can't see being a human lightning rod that amusing either." "Not particularly…" They set off.

Scorch awoke with a start. He was in a small white room, with only a bed and a mirror, presumably one way glass. He sat up and examined his surroundings. He noticed that his attire had changed since he passed out what seemed to be days ago. He was wearing a crude sort of armor, made mostly of leather and wire mesh, and had hurriedly formed metal plates covering his joints and vitals. A woman's voice chirped up on the intercom, "Glad to see you're awake." The voice sounded soft and sweet, with a hint of fatigue behind it. "Look under your bed, Rich left you a little gift." The intercom clicked, and then there was silence. He hopped off his bed and got down on his knees. There was something wrapped in a ragged cloth. He unwrapped it and say it was a sword, or at least somewhat, but it was unlike any sword he had ever seen. It was a flat black blade, roughly three feet long and six inches across. There was some form of Asian lettering down the side. Somehow he knew what it meant. Down one side it said, "He who is born from fire…" and the other side read, "Will bring the light unto the world." He pondered the meaning for a moment when he heard the doorknob start to turn, "I'm happy to see you got my gift." "Yeah… Mister…?" "Richardson, Pr. Richardson. But most people call me Rich." He shook his hand, still not knowing what was fully going on. "Why do I need a weapon… and this armor?" "Well… we need you to fight." This phrase would have most definitely scared him off, if it wasn't for Rich's reassuring, Morgan Freeman like voice. "Why don't you try it out, try and melt it with your powers." Scorch gave it a go. He felt a little energy drain out of himself, than it came back, but this time he felt the energy… in the sword! He jumped a little, and then looked at the sword. The lettering was glowing the color of hot coals, and it seemed as if the sword was illuminating the room. He cut off the power and the sword grew dim. He could only utter, in a hushed, uncertain voice, "Th… thank you." Rich just smiled at him, and then turned back to the doorway.


End file.
